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“Your responsibility? And here I thought you wanted my cock,” he tsks, taunting me. “But don’t worry, I won’t have any trouble finding someone who does.”
This is vintage Antonio. Every time he gets too close, every time we cross a bridge, he pushes me away in the most vile manner. At some point he’ll go too far, and the damage will be irreparable.
Will it? Because up to now, you’ve forgiven everything.
After we hang up, I swallow the hurt, the anger, and even the jealousy. In this world, the one I was born into, men make their choices, and women live by them without making too much fuss. They choose their battles carefully, and fidelity isn’t something that can be demanded. It’s something a man has to give freely, because there’s no way to police it. My father was faithful to my mother, but their marriage was more than a sham. He loved her.
Ours is a marriage of convenience. His convenience—and now, mine. There’s safety for Valentina here, and for me, too.
Love isn’t part of this equation—it’s nowhere to be found. Not that I give a damn. I have more important things to worry about, like helping Valentina acclimate to a new life without the woman she believes was her mother, and keeping her out of harm’s way. Antonio is nothing more than a distraction. For all I care, he can sleep in a new city every night.
I repeat this to myself each night before I fall asleep alone, and again in the morning when I open my eyes to the undisturbed covers on his side of the bed. But it doesn’t matter how many times I say it, or how adamantly. My heart can’t be fooled.
I won’t live like this. I can’t.
28
DANIELA
Five long days later, Antonio meets us at Santa Maria’s church, sliding into the pew beside me right before the casket is wheeled up the center aisle.
After our phone call, I never raised the issue of holding Isabel’s funeral at Santa Ana’s again. Once I had a few minutes to think carefully about it, I decided that bringing Valentina there wasn’t smart. As much as Isabel loved the old church, she would never want our safety compromised.
There were few funeral arrangements for me to make, as much of the planning was on a need-to-know basis to ensure our safety. But Antonio went to great lengths so I could honor my friend.
Despite the elevated security concerns and ongoing investigations, Cristiano accompanied me to the funeral home to choose the casket. I picked a polished cherry, lined in plush white velvet, with a luxurious nap. Isabel loved velvet. When I got home, Valentina and I spent hours choosing just the right flowers and music for the service. It was cathartic, but even more, it gave us both an opportunity to care for Isabel—to love her—in death.
While Antonio skillfully pulled the strings behind the curtain, he all but disappeared. Despite his assurances, I wasn’t entirely certain he’d show up for the funeral.Such is our marriage.But he’s here, and during the Mass, he does all the right things: lowering the kneeler for us, handing me the hymnal before I reach for it, and wrapping his large hand around mine while the priest eulogizes Isabel.
Somehow, I keep it together for the precious girl at my side. I’ve been putting on a good face for days and days, trying to be the rock Valentina needs. But inside I’m raw and trembling and as much as I hate to admit it, Antonio’s presence steadies me.
During the final blessing, the frankincense overwhelms the tiny chapel, taking me back to Santa Ana’s, to my mother’s funeral, and then to my father’s. Isabel was at my side for both. Her loyalty never wavered. The angel who comforted me after my mother was murdered, who held my twelve-year-old hand while I labored, offering ice chips, cool compresses, and unconditional love. The woman who didn’t bat an eyelash when my father asked her to raise my child as her own. Some people are blessed with one mother. In many ways, I was blessed with two.
The processional begins, and Valentina sobs as the casket is rolled out of the church. I rifle through my purse to find her a tissue, but she’s exhausted both her supply and mine. When I come up empty, Antonio leans over me and presses a monogrammed handkerchief into her hands. It’s a simple gesture, but I’m bursting with emotion that has no place to go, and his kindness is almost enough to open the dam.
“Thank you,” I murmur, gazing into his beautiful face.
He uses his thumb to dry a tear from my cheek. “Handkerchiefs are for emergencies.”
Indeed.Such a complicated man. He knows what proper etiquette requires. He also knows what being a good person requires. But chances are far greater that he’ll use the correct fork during dinner than show mercy to someone who has wronged him.
Will I ever understand him? Truly understand him in the way a wife understands her husband, or will he forever remain an enigma?
* * *
The brief serviceat the cemetery is a lot like my wedding, where the priest administers the sacrament while we’re ringed by armed guards who wouldn’t hesitate to kill anyone who appears suspicious.
Antonio scans the perimeter the entire time the priest prays, then shuttles us quickly toward the car when it’s over. But not before I stop at my parents’ grave.
I haven’t been here since my father’s funeral. So much has happened since they died that some days it seems like they’ve been gone a hundred years. Other days, the grief is fresh.
As we approach the burial site, Valentina slips her hand into mine. I feel her warmth in my soul, as we stand at the grave in a heavy silence.
The area around the headstone is immaculate, with the shrubs recently pruned. Someone left an urn with fresh garden roses. It’s oddly comforting.
“We can’t linger long, Daniela,” Antonio says softly, from beside me. “You can come back when things settle down.”
After a quick prayer, I let go of Valentina’s hand, and crouch down to see if there’s a card with the roses. But there’s nothing.Maybe Antonio sent them.
